


Samsara (Dreams of Cornflower Blue)

by natcat5



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 25 Lives, Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, Romance, dennor week 2k15
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“even though I know each time I’ll see you again,<br/>i always wonder: is this the last time? is that really you?" </p><p>25 Dennor oneshots. Searching for a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samsara (Dreams of Cornflower Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> Norway's name is always some variation of Norway, Aleksander, Lukas, or Niels   
> Denmark's name is always some variation of Denmark, Soren, or Matthias

**1.**

There’s this boy next door.

There’s this boy next door and he’s got hair like wheat and corn and gold and he’s got eyes like ice and blueberries and he never smiles.

There’s this boy next door, and sometimes he sits on the porch and stares out at the road. Watches the cars drive by and doesn’t look from side to side. He stares straight ahead, without a word or a sound.

There’s this boy next door, and he’s the saddest kid you’ve ever seen.

You play in the yard with your neighbourhood friends, and you want to invite that boy but the others tell you not to. He’s weird, they say. He doesn’t have a father. His mother’s a-

They say a bad word then, and you gasp. Everyone dissolves into laughter, and the boy next door is forgotten as you whisper curses to each other, giggling at the naughtiness of it, and looking furtively over your shoulders to make sure no guardians are in earshot.

There’s this boy next door, and you see him from your window sometime, standing on the sidewalk. He doesn’t do anything. Just stands, stares out at the road from a closer viewpoint. Then he’ll turn on his heel and go back inside.

Sometimes it’s raining.

Sometimes rainwater drips down his face and leaves his hair in wet strands plastered to the back of his neck. It hangs all down in his face and you think- someone should tell him, you think, that he ought to cut it. Or tie it back, so it doesn’t get in his face.

But then he’d look like a girl, and he’s already got such big eyes and long eyelashes- he probably wouldn’t want to wear a ponytail.

There’s this boy next door, and you never speak to him. His eyes are large and empty and stare out into spaces that you can’t see yourself. He never smiles. You never speak to him, but it only takes you a day to notice when he stops sitting on the porch.

Your mother steers you away from the windows and your father clucks his teeth and shakes his head. You never find out what happened to that boy, but his mother leaves, a man leading her into a car, and you never see him again.

You wish you knew his name.

**\--**

There’s this boy next door.

There’s this boy next door, with hair like thistle and sunlight and eyes like rain and sky, cornflower blue, and he’s always smiling.

There’s this boy next door and he’s always playing in the yard with the other kids on the street. He’s always swinging from branches and dashing through the grass and you always hear the pealing sound of his laughter.

There’s this boy, and he’s the happiest boy you’ve ever seen.

He used to make you angry, disrupting your quiet time, when you come to sit on the porch and fight with yourself. When you struggle to make a decision with your hands clutching your pants and your eyes glued to a road you’re too scared to walk down.

His laughter booms in the background, and you want to cry.

There’s this boy, and it looks like there’s nothing in life that can phase him. He’s got both parents, a bunch of friends, and sunshine pouring out of every pore. When you stand on the sidewalk and think _I could walk away and never come back_ you think about all the people who wouldn’t look for you, and all the people who _would_ look for him.

There’s this boy, and you hate him. You hate him for being better than you, but still staring at you like you’ve got all the answers in the world.

You catch him eyeing you when he’s in the yard, eyeing you when he’s got his stupid face pressed up against a window, and you have to fight not to turn your head and _glare._

 _Don’t pity me_ you want to say _don’t look down on me._

 _But don’t ignore me_ you think _keep noticing me, no one else does._

There’s this boy, and sometimes you think about telling him that you want to run away. You think he could understand, maybe, that your mother is pregnant and she wants the new baby more than she wants you. That she thinks the father will stay with her, if she doesn’t have you. But you’ve been all she has for a long time, and you’re scared that if you do leave, and the father turns out to be like _your_ father, she’ll have no one at all.

You don’t tell him that.

There’s this boy next door, and he looks like he’s never had a drop of sadness touch him in his life. He reminds you of sunflares and volcanoes, bright fires of light and radiance. He’s the type of boy, you think, who would take your hand and follow you, if you asked.

You don’t ask.

You leave one day, down the road your gaze always rested on, and don’t look back.

You walk, and wonder if that boy will look for you, when you are no longer on the porch, on the sidewalk.

You know his name, but you don’t suppose it’s important, anymore.  

**2.**

The sun god’s wrath is terrible, and the drought from three years back is still on everyone’s mind. The snows were few this season, and little rain fell to coax the flowers from the earth when the ground thawed. There’s a fear among the people, of a summer of fire and death. Of cracked earth and forests going up in smoke and flame. The snow was so light that the melted water added nothing to the river, and though the hot season is far off, there is already fear of another drought.

The elders decide, with unanimous backing, that a sacrifice must be made.

They reason that gods of fire are more demanding then those of the earth, water, and moon, and more fickle. Perhaps the burning of cattle appeased the sun god in previous years, but it would be foolish to assume that he would not one day call for more.

There must be an offering. The blood of a youth must be spilled.

There’s a sadness in the village, for the children are the future, but there is also an urgency, for making an already temperamental god wait seemed to be nothing short of suicide. There was no time to be spared. A child must be chosen, immediately.

Within a day after the elder’s meeting, a boy is chosen. He is young and strong. A favourite to becoming a head of a warrior clan in the future. Well muscled and bright eyed, well liked by his peers. Parentless, but raised by the adults of the village communally. He was loved, and when his name was announced there were many outcries of pain and disbelief. A few even went so far as to step forward, ask for another youth to be chosen. Why a boy so beloved? Why a child who the entire village loved?

But the child, Mattwyse, steps forward with a smile, and bows graciously before the elders. He’s honoured, he says, that the elders believe him worthy enough to be presented before the sun god. That they hold his life in such high regard. That someone without parentage, such as himself, could be given in exchange for prosperity and health for all of their people.

Many of the assembled crowd is in tears, but the boy himself is dry-eyed.

There are preparations, before he can be sacrificed. He is to purge himself, must not eat for a full cycle of the sun before being presented. And he must be pure, cannot have contact with the village folk for that same full cycle. He will be confined to the temple, with the priests, for the last day of his life.

Mattwyse accepts this information with the same easy smile, and when the elders are finished speaking, he turns to hug the aunts, the uncles, the grandparents who raised him. The little children who swung on his muscled arms. The wild dogs who he’s known since they were whelped. The village.

He is escorted away by a few of the guardsmen, led to the horses. He smiles still as he mounts them, and waves as he rides away to the temple where he will spend the last day of his life.

It is not far from the village, but too far to walk comfortably on foot. It sits at the top of the hill, with a sundial that lines up perfectly with the sun at midday. The building itself is unremarkable, but the spire upon which the sundial sits is dotted with glittering gems and glass that make it sparkle and shine in dappling lights when the sun hits it.

The sun is low when they arrive, and there is no one waiting at the door. The guardsmen wait at the end of the path, and Mattwyse unmounts his horse and walks up the path alone. His smile has fallen by now, and there’s a hitch in his breath, a tugging in his chest. But his strides remain steady, and he reaches the temple door.

He raises a hand to knock, but the wooden door swings open before his fist can connect, and he drops his hand with a startled sound, confronted with a hooded figure, cowled in white.

Mattwyse, overcoming his surprise, attempts to stammer out a greeting, summoning that faded smile back to his face, but the figure has already moved aside, turned their head, and is gesturing for the youth to step inside.

Swallowing nervously, Mattwyse does just that.

He follows the figure into the temple, the sound of their footsteps echoing around the empty rooms and deserted corridors. There are only a few priests living here. Babies who are given up by their parents at birth, or children who are chosen by the elders later in life. It’s a lonely existence, and no one goes to it willingly. Living secluded in a temple, devoting life to gods beyond the realm of taste and touch, is a kind of sacrifice in itself.

The priest leads him to a room, empty save for a bed, a washing basin, and a covered hole for passing water into. Mattwyse steps inside, and tries not to wince when the door shuts behind him.

He has plants and paintings in his room in the village. The walls and floor of the room here are bare and gray. There is no colour here, and the youth feels the full brunt of situation in that moment. His knees buckle, and he collapses onto the hard stone, teeth digging into his bottom lip as tears finally spill down his cheeks.

He has one day, and then he is to die.

Sleep eludes him that night, save for a few hours of lost consciousness, and when the door to his room opens in the morning, his eyes are bleary and his senses dulled. He barely registers the quiet voice that says he is to follow him, and it is only when his vision clears and he sees his visitor for the first time, that he startles into wakefulness.

“Nyels?” says Mattwyse, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and sitting up in the bed. “Nyels, no way, is that you?”

He asks to make sure, but there’s no question about it. Mattwyse’s earliest memories are of hiding in crevices and exploring the forest with a boy his age, pale-haired and eyes as deep as the sky and as cold as the snows. Blue-violet and beautiful in those rare moments where they sparkled with mirth. His childhood friend, who had been chosen by the elders in their ninth year and sent away to the temple, never to be seen again.

But there is no mistaking those blue-violet eyes, the pale hair, still falling haphazardly into his face. The childish roundness has left his face, and his cheekbones are sharp and angled, making his eyes look deeper set, more bottomless. He’s tall, nearly the same height as Mattwyse, where in their youth he had been much shorter. The gray and white priest cowls dwarf him, making him look slight and slim, and Mattwyse wonders if he could pick him up like he used to. Wonder if he could swing him around and give him rides on his back, as they did when they were young.

Nyels’s lips press into a thin line, and he is silent for a moment. He was always a hard child to read, but all the priests conceal their emotions, and he’s had almost ten years to make his mask into something absolutely impenetrable.

It is hard for him, though, to be confronted with his former best friend, who is sentenced to death in only a single day’s time. It is hard for him, and a few seconds of silence pass before he is able to answer.

“We leave our names behind, when we come here,” he answers, in a practiced tone, devoid of emotion and intonation. “I am to lead you to the southern chamber for the first round of purification. Please follow me.”

He turns on his heel, before he can see Mattwyse’s expression. He is sure it will be the same as it was when they were children. His face would light up with every shade of sunlight and happiness, and crumple into a mess of thunderstorms and rain when he was sad. Emotions blossomed in full on his face, a stark contrast to the mask of ice that Nyels has worn almost since birth.

 _Nyels,_ a name almost forgotten. A name only called out by the one other orphan in the village. They had run together, clung together at night. Both their families dead, they had been all each other had. Mattwyse was friendly and could charm aid out of the villagers, but Nyels was sullen and quiet, and could not garner their sympathy in the same way. Mattwyse had protected him. Helped him to live.

And now, the boy-man who was once Nyels is going to help Mattwyse to die.

It is hard to keep track of time in the temple, where years have no true meaning, but he doesn’t think either of them have passed eighteen years.

They are both too young for this, and as he hears Mattwyse’s footsteps, following down the corridor behind him, the priest’s stomach twists in sadness.

Mattwyse’s head hangs down, and his hands fist in his tunic as he follows behind his former friend, the chilliness of the other’s gaze still searing holes into his heart. It has been a very long time, he recognizes, but his feelings for the other are still strong. Brothers, they were, and it hurts, to have so little recognition cast towards him.

But perhaps it’s better this way, his more rational mind reasons, because isn’t he to die before the sun sets tomorrow? What good would it do, to rekindle a past friendship, when his body will soon be ash? And Nyels, the boy- the man who was once Nyels is to remain here, for the rest of his life. No reconciliation, no reunion can change that.

Mattwyse wonders if Nyels’s cheeks are still soft, if he is still ticklish under his feet. If he still scowls and pulls on ears when he’s displeased. He wonders, and he fights back tears, because he is never going to discover these things. He has no more time.

The priest leads him to a quiet room on the far side of the temple. Pews stretch from left to right, and a statue stands at the forefront of the room, a basin of water sitting before it.

“I will read the purification rites to you,” says the priest speaking for the first time since they left the room, “Stand with your head bowed over the basin. After each line, I will bathe your head.”

Mattwyse nods his understanding, and follows the priest to the front of the room. The floor is cold, sending chills through the thin cloth of his shoes. The hairs on his arms and neck are standing up, and he fights back a shiver. The heavy robes that the priests wear make sense, if all of the prayer rooms where they spend so much time are this cold.

He stands in front of the water and bows his head as the priest moves to stand on the platform behind it, picking up the small silver cup from the rim of the basin. He begins speaking the rites, and Mattwyse fights back another involuntary shiver, the words being spoken in a language he does not know. Nyels knows it though, something new and foreign. There are all sorts of foreign things about Nyels that he doesn’t know now. Secrets. They never kept secrets as children. He wants to sit down and talk, wants to hear about all of the things in Nyels that are different. Wants to find out what things are the same.

The first cup of water is poured over his head and Mattwyse tries not to flinch, cold dripping down his neck and rolling off his hair. He remembers Nyels dunking his head in the river. Remembers pushing him in, both of them soaking wet and yelling at each other. Had they been fighting or playing? Had they been laughing or screaming profanities? He can’t remember now, but he remembers cuddling afterwards, in front of a fire. Nyels grumbling and Mattwyse chuckling, nose buried into the other’s hair.

Another cup is poured over his head, and Mattwyse shuts his eyes, licking away the drops of water that have rolled over his lips, salty in taste.

The ritual ends after what feels like an eternity, and Mattwyse stands shivering, water dripping from his hair and down his back. Nyels steps off the platform and meets his gaze for the first time since they left the room, mask firmly in place and eyes guarded. It hurts, but even so Mattwyse manages an easy smile, wiping away the droplets that are hanging off of his nose.

“Is that all then?” he asks, strands of hair falling into his face. “Is that, um, are there anymore-,”

“There will be another at midday, and another at sundown,” answers Nyels flatly, eyes once again flickering away from Mattwyse. “There’s a room you’re to stay in between them. You’ll be given books to read, and things to write with, if you request them, but you’ll have to stay in there for the duration of your time here. The candles and runes within it will keep you pure between bathings.”

Mattwyse’s face falls, because it sounds like he’s going to be spending his last day alone, bored out of his skull, and sneezing because of the burning incense. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy for him, and he knows he’s going to die tomorrow, but the knowledge that he will really and truly be spending this last day in what is basically imprisonment brings a lump to his throat.

“Oh,” he says, his voice soft as he inhales sharply, “I- okay.”

He can’t think of anything else to say. He’s not a quiet person, and is known in the village to be quite boisterous and loud, but his words are failing him now, and his stomach is twisting and knotted with stones. He feels ill, and he feels terribly, terribly alone.

The young priest remains silent, and that’s something familiar, at least. Nyels was never a talkative person. He liked to pull on Mattwyse’s ears when he was upset and used to give him flat, annoyed looks, but he was sparing with his words. His silence is almost comforting, in that, but his expression is still devoid of familiarity or any other form of comfort, and Mattwyse keeps his eyes on the ground as he follows the priest to his prison.

The room is brighter than any of the others in the temple, with red walls, vibrantly visible even through the haze of smoke. There are candles all along the walls, and Mattwyse squints his eyes and fights back a sneeze as he steps into the room. The scents aren’t bad, but they’re strong, and the room is hot, full of fire without any windows or visible grates for air. There’s a single bench in the back corner, with a desk full of books and paper, and Mattwyse has to hold in a sigh. He’s never been one for books, and only knows how to read because one of his grandmother’s wanted him to read to her when her eyesight failed. The temple books will never hold his attention, and he’s probably going to go mad during the duration of his stay in here.

He half turns towards the door, licking his lips and wiping a bead of sweat off his brow. The young priest is still there, watching appraisingly. When Mattwyse turns towards him he tenses, and his lips press together tightly.

“So, uh,” begins Mattwyse awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, “Do-do I have to stay in here by myself? I-I mean, you temple types are already s’pposed to be pure and stuff, so I bet it’d be okay if you-,”

“No,” snaps Nyels immediately, his face turning abruptly to the side. Mattwyse is startled into silence, and the young priest flinches away from Mattwyse and turns on his heel, exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

The sound of the door clicking shut is deafening, and Mattwyse’s throat closes up, the smoke suddenly blinding and suffocating. He feels a sob building unbidden in his chest, and he fights it down furiously, backing up until his back hits the deck. The youth rubs his eyes furiously, and he turns to look at the pile of books assembled on the worn wood.

It’s going to hurt. This day, his last day of living, is going to hurt, and no amount of optimism, no amount of rediscovered childhood friends, can change that. Nyels is a young priest, and Mattwyse is a sacrifice. Neither of them can find any comfort in each other, and he’s been a fool to assume otherwise.

His chest hurts, and his eyes burn as flips open one of the books idly, nose watering. He’s determined to make the most of this, to not, for a single moment, wish for the time to pass by faster so that he can get out of this room. All that will be then, is him hastening towards his own death, and he’s- he’s not ready for that.

The sun rises steadily, and midday comes upon them. The young priest is sent again to attend to the sacrifice, to bring him forth from the purifying room to bathe and cleanse him on the altar. It’s his duty to attend to the young man all day; all of his strict instructions given to him the night prior. He knows what to do. He knows what’s expected of him.

He opens the door to the purifying room and inhales sharply, fighting to keep his face impassive. It shouldn’t hurt, there shouldn’t be anything left to hurt, but a boy is going to die tomorrow, and he is preparing him for that death. He is not going to be the one lowering the sword, cutting the young man open from sternum to navel, but still, his hands tremor slightly as he pushes on the wood.

 _If only it wasn’t Mattwyse,_ says a traitorous voice within him. And he shoves it back viciously. He is to have no ties to his past life. Not now that he is loyal to the temple, subservient to the gods. Mattwyse should be nothing more than another villager to him. Another citizen. Another disciple.

The young man is slumped over on the desk, mouth open and snores echoing around the smoky room. His hair is damp and disheveled and there is sweat beading at the end of his nose, cheeks moistened with it. Mattwyse sleeping is a sight he hasn’t seen in years, and it brings a lump to his throat. A blockage that he can’t clear easily.

Finally, he clears his throat, and steps into the room, knocking on the desk beside Mattwyse’s sleeping head.

The youth jerks upwards with a sleepy grunt, unbalancing himself and toppling out of the chair to smack his head onto the floor. The young priest rolls his eyes and brings his palm to his forehead instinctively, before remembering that that type of behavior is no longer acceptable for him, and dropping his hand immediately. It takes more than a few seconds to smooth out his face however, with Mattwyse muttering curses under his breath and rubbing at his head with an indignant pout on his face.

He blinks a few times, before looking up and settling his gaze on the young priest, seeming to notice him for the first time. His eyes go wide with happiness for a moment, before he visibly winces and he drops his gaze.

The young priest’s stomach twists, and he stubbornly reminds himself that he has nothing to be guilty for.

“Oh no,” mutters Mattwyse, getting to his feet, “I fell asleep didn’t I? And you’re here, which means it’s midday.” He sucks in a breath, and the young priest isn’t sure that it’s sweat glistening by the youth’s eyelids.

“I just went and slept away some of the last hours I have left.” His voice cracks, and he seems unable to meet the young priest’s gaze, his breathing suddenly shallow and strained. “Figures, huh?” He adds weakly, chuckling humourlessly, his hands clutching at his tunic like it’s his last lifeline.

The young priest doesn’t respond. There’s nothing for him to say. Nothing that he’s supposed to say, as an impartial, apathetic member of the temple.

Mattwyse seems to realize this though, because he keeps his head turned away, not looking for an answer, swallowing a few times.

“Alright, whatever, what’s done is done an’ all that,” he says airily, his voice still strained, “Onto the purification thingy then, right?”

The young priest nods wordlessly, and Mattwyse follows him out into the corridor, and back towards the fountain.

He’s completely silent this time, no attempt at conversing, and the young priest feels his heart beating wildly in his chest. His own throat feels choked, his own chest constricted, and he’s hard pressed to keep his voice from shaking as he pours water over the sacrifice’s head and recites the rites.

Mattwyse stays silent.

The purification is over quickly, and the only sounds that pass between them as they return to Mattwyse’s chamber are the small noises of discomfort he makes as water drips down his neck and face. Nyels spares him a few glances, looking back over his shoulder everytime the other grunts in displeasure and stops to shake water out of his hair. Another pang twists the young priest’s stomach, as a memory, still vivid despite the passage of time, assaults him. Of Mattwyse, dripping with river water, and shaking his head in the exact same manner. He’d been smiling that time however, his grin wide and gap-toothed with almost half his teeth missing. Water rolled down his skin and saturated his clothes, but he had been laughing. Loud and raucously, so that echoed around the forest and startled the birds into flight.

It hurts to remember. Hurts in places that should be numb.

He stops in front of the door to Mattwyse’s chamber and turns, with some reluctance, to face the other young man. The youth’s face is almost unrecognizable, his eyes so sad and his expression so serious. No laughter dances in his eyes, no smile plays about his lips, and he stares at the door to his cell with a deep devastation within his gaze.

The young priest is supposed to no longer have a heart. No longer be a slave to sentiment and emotion. But all the same, he feels something crack in his chest.

His hand touches the handle of the door, and lingers.

Mattwyse is struggling with his thoughts, struggling with his emotions, struggling against the tide of despair swelling within him. He’s been good. He understands why he’s here, why it’s necessary, and he doesn’t blame anyone. Not the elders who chose him, not the priests who are preparing him, and not the god who demanded the sacrifice.

But he is going to _die_ tomorrow. And all he can do is sit in a sweaty, hot room and try not to cry. If there’s anything he wishes, it’s that he could _choose_ how he spends his last day. Being inside, alone with nothing but books and candles, is nothing he would have chosen for himself. Outside, by a river, under trees thick with leaves, sunlight dappling down and a breeze blowing. The scolding voices of his village aunts and uncles in the distance, the laughter of the children playing warriors in the meadows…

And if he really had the option to choose, if he really could makes his last day be his perfect day, he’d have Nyels beside him. Nyels, looking at him like he’s an idiot, and calling him as much, but treating him to a smile every now and then. Soft, fleeting, and an image to be treasured.

Mattwyse inhales deeply and shudders, eyes burning as the door opens and he steps inside, the smoke swirling around him.

“I’ll be back at sunset,” says Nyels quietly, his head to the side and his hair concealing his eyes from view. He turns, and takes his hand off the door, letting it swing shut.

Mattwyse closes his eyes and lets the first tears roll down his cheeks.

He doesn’t sleep again, sitting on the bed with his head hanging down between his knees. The sobs wrack through his body and he shakes. He sits and he shakes, presses his palms to his face and cries. And when the tears stop, he trembles, trembles silently, with his eyes dry and hot, cheeks still wet and mouth quivering.

Eventually, he gets to his feet and paces back and forth, imagines what the sky looks like. Whether it’s still blue, or whether it’s being tinged orange and pink and red, the sun sinking below the horizon.

It occurs to him that he’s moping, that he’s bemoaning the arrival of sunset, the last purification rite, and the final seal on his fate. He lets himself sink into it, however, because the reality that this is it, these are the last hours of his life, has hit him hard and fast. And it doesn’t help, it really doesn’t help, that Nyels is here. Nyels is here but he’s cold, he’s cold and unfamiliar and it makes everything so much worse. Mattwyse could be strong if there wasn’t a stranger, an emotionless young priest, wearing the face of his best friend.

He cries and he shakes, and then he pulls himself together and flops over onto his back, picturing his village in his head, wondering what everyone’s doing, remembering everyone’s faces, and holding tight to the good memories of the short, short life he’s lived. Remembering brings a smile to his blotchy, tear-streaked face, and he’s smiling when the door opens again, dry-eyed.

“Sunset then, huh?” he comments flippantly, eyes still turned up towards the ceiling, “Jeez, time really flies doesn’t it? Haha.” His laughter is strained and his voice is hoarse but he sits up with a smile, turns his face towards the young priest with dry eyes and a familiar roguish upturn to his lips.

Nyels’s breath stutters, and he turns his head to the side sharply. His chest is hurting, and his head. It feels like his voice is stuck in his throat and he stands for a few seconds, silent.

“It’s time for the last purification,” he says finally, and he’s proud, because his voice is steady. It shouldn’t be anything _but_ steady, but there was chance it wouldn’t be. Mattwyse is standing in front of him with red-rimmed eyes and a smile that’s as painful as a knife twisted in his guts, and he’s thankful that his voice remained steady.

The other youth nods once, swallowing visibly.

“Yeah,” he says in agreement, and wipes the back of his hand underneath his nose, eyes fever bright. Nyels feels his head nodding as well, and stops himself, turning and beginning the walk to the altar. They’re both silent.

The young priest has regained control of himself by the time they’ve reached the room with the water. The ache in his chest has faded back into the familiar numbness, and he has a firm hold on any memories and thoughts that are swaying him. Making him care. His hands steady, and he walks with his head held high.

He is a priest, and he is preparing a sacrifice for their Sun God.

Mattwyse follows, miles away, singing songs in his head. Hunting songs, war songs, farming songs, all of the familiar tunes that everyone in their village knows by heart. He sings to keep his mind off of the present, off of the cold shoulders in front of him and off of the sun setting on his last full day of life. He keeps singing mentally as the young priest pours water over his head, tuning out the purification rites and closing his eyes. The water is still cold, and he shivers, but he holds onto the warmth of his memories. Recalls lying down on hillsides, the sun beating down, and curled up in front of crackling fires, skin prickling with the heat.

The droplets of water that have rolled down his lips are salty again.

The walk back to the room is silent, and Mattwyse finds it difficult to breathe. His chest is constricted, his throat thick, and despite his best efforts, he’s blinking back tears.

The sun is set, and when it rises again, it will be time for him to die. Time for him to give his life for the village. To spill his blood in order to appease the fickle, demanding Sun God.

He inhales shakily as the young priest opens the door, and passes a hand over his face, wiping away tears and shielding his burning eyes from view.

The priest swallows thickly, and fights to keep his breathing steady. To keep himself calm and aloof. Mattwyse is coming apart in front of him. He’s breaking down, afraid and sad and scared, and it hurts. It _hurts._ Deep inside him. In a place where he shouldn’t feel anything at all. It’s been ten years since they were friends. Ten years since they were brothers. But he feels the sting of Mattwyse’s pain, still. He was never good at providing comfort, but he wishes, oh how he wishes, that he could extend a hand. That he could pull Mattwyse into his chest and let the other youth rest his head and weep upon his shoulder.

But he can’t.

He steps back, preparing to let the door swing shut. But before he can, Mattwyse drops his hand from his face and turns to look at him, eyes red and shining.

“Do you, uh,” he begins hesitantly, his voice hoarse, “Do you remember that field we used to lay in all the time? We’d sleep there a lot, and uh, sometimes we’d just watch the clouds. The field was so pretty, such a nice colour. The flowers were, um-,”

He stops, floundering as he tries to recall some far off memory. Mattwyse’s eyes flicker over to the priest, looking for any sign of recognition, any sign of kinship.

But the man that was once Nyels has his face turned away, and Mattwyse inhales sharply and closes his eyes again, turning away and stepping into his room, his cell, without another word.

The young priest removes his hand from the door and lets it swing shut. The sound of it hitting the doorframe echoes in the corridor, and he stands there silently for a few seconds.

Then Nyels steps forward and, gently, leans his forehead against the shut door. A single tear rolls out from under his shut eyelid and a shudder runs through his hunched shoulders.

“Cornflowers,” he whispers, his voice cracking, “Cornflowers, you idiot.”

Another shudder runs through him, and then he steps back, nose running and eyes burning. He raises his cowl so that it’s once again obscuring his face from view, and walks away.

Before the sun has fully risen, before the blue-black sky of night has fully begun to fade away, a group of priests open the door and lead Mattwyse out, the youth’s eyes still blurry with sleep. They bring him to the eastern-most point of the temple, the place that lines up directly with the sun as it rises, the pink and orange hues spilling across the slab of stone lying there.

There is no audience for this sacrifice, not as there are for the cattle sacrifices that usually occur in the village square. There is only the boy, and three priests, one of them holding a curved, ceremonial dagger.

Mattwyse stares up at the sky, lying on the stone slab. He hears the priests chanting, praying in unison, and hears the sound of one of them stepping towards him.

“Cornflowers,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

The sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon, the sky lightening from the deep blue of night, orange and red radiating out from the divine being rising from its sleep. Beginning a new day. And perhaps, the words of those old folk songs are correct. Perhaps, just as sunrise heralds a new day, death heralds a new life. Maybe there is something more, on the other side of this ceremonial altar. Maybe there will be a new chance for him. Him, and Nyels.

The knife descends.

 

**3.**

“Hey man, spare a light?”

Aleks looked up, squinting through the glare from the nearby streetlamp, and raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light. He tilted his head to the side, still squinting, and scowled up at the person who had stopped in front of him.

It was a woman, with lips painted bright red and hair spiked in every direction, tipped black at the back. She was grinning, front teeth with smears of lipstick across them, eyes a shining blue, with black eyeliner smudged around. Her clothes hung off of her loosely, a blazer with a gaudy cornflower broach, over top of a wifebeater with a skirt and saggy, too-long leggings. There was a feverish energy to her, her eyes too bright, and Aleks wondered what she wanted to light a cigarette for, when she was clearly getting her fix from somewhere else.

“I don’t smoke,” he answered flatly, turning his face away and pulling the overlong coat tighter about himself. The girl frowned, blinking rapidly, before sniffing the air in an exaggerated fashion and looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“No shit? That’s weird, ‘cause I swear I can smell smoke all over this place. S’why I asked, y’know?” She smiled again, tilting her head to the side. She looked like a girl who was used to getting what she wanted. Used to people bending for a pretty face. Or, at the very least, used to _thinking_ she got what she wanted. Thinking that she was in charge. But Aleks thought that she looked like a girl who had been well used, by people, by the world. A girl with very little control over her situation, over her life.

But then again, he was one to talk, wasn’t he?

Aleks shifted his gaze sideways, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He sunk down into his coat, staring at his feet, curled up in the tattered remains of his shoes. He didn’t want to deal with this. It’d be different if she looked like someone with money. Someone to look up at mournfully, try and play on the heartstrings. But she looked like she was one more hit away from joining him on this cold street corner. One more paycheck lost to the powder and the pills.

“It’s a public street, moron,” he hissed dully, “And it’s 1 AM on a Friday night. It’d be strange if you _didn’t_ smell smoke. Leave me alone.”

Her entire face fell, makeup caking in the lines around her eyes and mouth. She pouted, folding her arms across her chest.

“Well, _jeez._ No need to be _rude_ about it!” She huffed, brushing a drooping spike out of her face, “Like, _damn_ man. What’s got you so pissy, huh? Shouldn’t be no issue with a little conversation, huh? You look like you need it. But like, you’re an _ass._ ”

Aleks blinked up at her in surprise for a moment, before dropping his chin back on top of his knees, staring stubbornly ahead.

“I don’t need your pity,” he growled, teeth clenched, “Don’t you have a dick to suck somewhere? It sure as hell isn’t going to be mine.”

The girl stiffened, and for a moment, she just stared at him lip still protruding in a pout. But then she _crumpled,_ face scrunching up in misery and eyes tearing, the black eyeliner smudging further and sending gritty trials of black down her cheeks.

“Fucking _hell,”_ she spat, teeth bared in a snarl, “Like I was judging you for being a goddamn hobo. Dude, _fuck off._ You never have someone be nice to you or something? Well, that’s _not_ how you deal with it. I just wanted to _talk,_ asshole. _Fuck._ ”

Her face scrunched up again, eyes still watering, and Aleks flinched back unsettled and caught off guard by the mood change. From amicable to irritated to pissed off and crying in the same minute. This is why he stayed away from other people. He can’t understand them.

His lip curled back and he looked up at her again, meeting her watery gaze. It was that same look again. That same look like she was expecting him to cave in, to be swayed by her tears, to have a change of heart. To suddenly discover that he was lonely and _desperately_ needed someone to talk to. Even a delusional junkie girl.

But Aleks ran out of pity for a long time ago, and people had always been more trouble than they were worth.

“Well I _don’t_ want to talk,” he spat, half-rising out of the crouch he was in, “So why don’t _you_ fuck off!”

The movement, and the words, made her recoil, stumble backwards a few steps. She hiccupped, fever-bright eyes blinking furiously, before turning and taking off down the sidewalk, heels clacking against the concrete in the silence of the night.

Aleks could heard the sound of her shoes fading into the distance, but he didn’t watch her go, curling up tighter, arms wrapped around his legs and face buried into his knees.

 

**4.**

 

\--

_June, The Eastern Sea_

 

To Lady Luka of the deVik Clan,

 

Even writing out your name makes me wonder if it’s okay for me to send this letter. Does the palace even except letters that don’t have royal stamps? I’m writing on the cleanest paper I can find, and I’ll barter for hours for the least diseased-looking envelope. But it’s hard, out on the seas, to find something up to royal standards. I hope you’ll forgive whatever state this letter comes to you in.

And I hope you’ll forgive this impertinence, if that’s the right word. We’ve spoken both times that the King has invited Captain Kirkland to court, and I’m never quite able to read your feelings. The first time, you near shunned me outright. Which is fine, obviously, because I’m way under your status! You could probably get in trouble for talking to me. Or maybe you just didn’t want to talk to me. I probably don’t smell as good as the royals that live in the palace with you.

But the _second_ time you absolutely spoke to me! And I hope you remember, you also said it would certainly be interesting to get a letter from me. I think, maybe, you were saying it because you thought, since I’m a pirate, I can’t write. But that’s okay! Most pirates can’t. But y’know, Captain Kirkland’s a bit different than your average pirate, and his crew’s gotta be the same. The King wouldn’t be using us if we weren’t, yknow?

Lady deVik, we barely exchanged words, but I was honestly very taken with you. I was taken with you even before we exchanged words! But I was even more taken with you after we exchanged words. I’ve never met anyone who could chill me with merely a glance. You’ve got power in your gaze, and I’d love to learn more about you.

But I still don’t know whether this letter will be truly welcome or not, so I will keep further words to myself.

Today, writing this, we are sailing down to the Southeastern coast, ready to harass Hearts’ shipping at the King’s behest. The sun is shining, and the ocean is a beautiful blue, like a darker, fluid reflection of the sky.

I hope to hear from you soon,

 

Soren, First Mate to Captain Arthur Kirkland of The Emerald Lion, privateer in service of His Majesty King Alfred of Spades

(or, the pirate with the funny-looking hair, in case you forgot my name)

 

\--

_August, The Southeastern Sea_

To Lady Luka of the deVik Clan,

 

I don’t know how long letters take to deliver, but I know most postal services use mages now, so a few months without response is a bit telling.

I don’t want to assume anything, however, so I am sending this second letter, in case the first one was lost.

Lady deVik, I would like to know you better. You said you would be interested in me writing and so I have. If you have even the slightest bit of curiousity about me, I would love to read a response from you.

We won’t make port back in the capital for another few months. If I have received no reply by then, I will make sure to give you wide berth.

 

Soren, First Mate to Captain Arthur Kirkland of The Emerald Lion, privateer in service of His Majesty King Alfred of Spades

(the pirate with the funny hair)

 

\--

_September, The Royal Palace of Spades_

To the idiot with the stupid hair,

 

It occurs to me that, being a pirate of low birth, you may not have the faintest clue as to how the mail works. But as both your letters reached me successfully, it seems you must have seem basic idea of what purpose postage and addresses serve. How then, did you expect me to reply to your letters, if you are on a ship in the middle of the ocean? Even carrier birds need more specific directions then ‘someplace in the Southeastern Sea’.

I am merely sending this letter to inform you of how stupid you are. And I am using my own magic to do it. Postal services will use mages to speed up delivery, but homing magic for direct transportation is something left to the highborn. It is not something usually used for letters, but I very much needed to tell you how stupid you are.

 

Lady deVik, the younger

\--

_September, The Southeastern Sea_

To Lady deVik,

 

Thank you very much for you reply! You wrote back! I’m so happy! I mean, I hoped you would, but it really seemed like you wouldn’t, and as terrifying as it was to have a flying, glowing letter nail me in the back of the head while I was manning the wheel, I’m glad you did.

Er, I guess I didn’t think that through entirely. I don't know much about magic, to be honest. Captain Kirkland uses it, on occasion, and some of the ships in the fleet, not my ship but others, have magic in the hulls. But I don’t know much about what they do and how they work. I know it’s different here then it is in the areas closer to Hearts and Diamonds. I know the magic practiced by royals is different then that practiced by the common folk. But I don’t much about it. There are many things, I must admit, that I don’t know much about. I just know that the royals of Spades are supposed to be _super_ good at it. So! You just met all my expectations!

I hope you don’t mind if I take your reply as permission to continue this correspondence. I really don’t want to bother you. I’ve been told, on occasion, that I can be a bit ‘pushy’ and ‘annoying’ and ‘can’t shut up’ and so on. Or rather, Captain Kirkland likes to tell me that not everyone wants ‘an unrelenting ball of optimism shoved in their face at every hour of every day’. But these letters are rather infrequent, I must assume, as the post has nothing on your speedy powers of delivery. So surely it’s alright, and you don’t find these letters too annoying?

Today we are beginning our return trip. It will be a pity to leave the southern waters, the sun is warm and the locals are pirate-friendly, but if we dally too long storm season will be upon us.

This letter should find you before we arrive, and if you use your exceptional magical skills again, so should your reply find me. If you choose to write one.

Until then,

Soren, First Mate to Captain Kirkland, etc. etc.

\--

_October, The Royal Palace of Spades_

To the idiot pirate,

I must request that you make some attempt to use whatever brain exists beneath that bushel of hair. If you choose to not address the letter with my first name (which is appropriate), then be sure to add ‘the younger’ to my title. Swift intervention prevented this letter from being forwarded to my mother, but such luck may not hold in the future. So if you insist on writing to me, be certain to specify that it is _me_ you are writing to.

To be of Spades and to not know anything of magic is a feat, to be sure. I cannot begin to imagine how you pulled it off, short of having been raised under a rock. Is your captain truly assured with having his first officer ignorant to the affairs of some of his fleet? You should educate yourself; surely you don’t spend all of your time at sea coming up with new trivialities to send to me.

A letter every few months is a tame form of harassment. A pirate leagues away from me has little power of annoyance. Entertaining the other Nobles of court is a far more irritating, and time consuming, thing to experience.

That said, take care with your language, idiot pirate. Nobles are not the same as Royals. The Royals consist solely of the King, Jack, Queen, and their families. The Nobles are the families that make up the councils- the Lords and Ladies of the court. Perhaps these terms are conflated by the common folk, but I would prefer you take the care to distinguish between them when conversing with me.

Do not expect anything from me when you return to the palace. Neither a word, nor a glance. Expect nothing, idiot pirate.

 

Lady deVik, the younger.

 

\--

 

Lady Luka deVik,

 

You gave me a glance, and several words! It made me very happy. Look, :):), I’ve written smiling faces!

 

Soren

 

/

 

Stupid pirate,

 

Don’t pass notes to me in the hallway. Are we children??? >:( Enjoy that, idiot.

 

Lady deVik, the younger

/

 

Lady Luka deVik,

 

I’m afraid I have no choice but to return to passing notes. Your brother has been glaring at me. :( He’s got the same chilly glare you do, except I don’t think he’s very beautiful and graceful and amazing so it just scares me instead of filling me with a terrified awe and admiration. So I’d super like to talk to you face to face but instead I’m going to avoid him.

 

Soren

 

/

Stupid pirate,

 

My brother is probably half your age. What bravery is this, from one who has sailed the seas with the most feared pirate in the Suit Kingdoms?

But perhaps he is more mature than I, and realizes the ridiculousness of this correspondence. This is foolish, and could bring scandal to my family, if revealed.

I should order you to cease all contact with me, effective immediately.

 

Lady deVik, the younger,

 

/

Lady Luka deVik,

 

No more foolish, no more ridiculous, no more scandalous than a Suits King taking dinner, riding horses, and walking in the Royal Gardens with a pirate captain, surely.

 

Soren

/

Idiot pirate,

Regardless of your stupid, idiot pirate reasoning, I too have felt my brother’s eyes on us the last few times we’ve spoken. Passing notes like this makes me feel like a child, and I dislike the idea of someone finding them if not properly hidden away.

I sit in the library archives, sometimes, to get away from the chatter of court. If you feel a pressing need to speak with me, perhaps you should find your way there.

And do not dare read any further meaning in those words.

 

Lady deVik, the younger,

 

/

Lady Luka deVik,

 

This will be the last note I pass to you, before we sail again. Barely a few weeks at court, and already we must go. :( Captain Kirkland says you Nobles can’t stand to have pirates fouling up their city for longer than that. But we aren’t sailing far, just to a town further up the river.

I have much enjoyed our talks in the library, Lady Luka deVik, and I hope you’ll keep writing to me! I don’t know if we will return to court before we go out to sea again. I don’t know when we will next see each other.

But what I wanted to say, and what I was too frightened to say to your face, is that your last note, all those days ago, implied that you kept the notes, and letters, that I sent to you. You said ‘properly hidden away’ and not ‘properly disposed of’, and perhaps you meant nothing by those words, but….:). I didn’t think you’d like the insinuation, so I didn’t bring it up, but the idea that you kept them made my heart glad.

 

Apologies for the impertinence,

Soren, the idiot pirate

 

\--

 

_November, The Royal Palace of Spades_

To Soren, the idiot pirate,

 

Did it not occur to you that the improperly hidden notes I referred to were your own? That I was assuming you kept my letters and notes? It seems that never occurred to you, did it? Well maybe it should have.

~~And if I did keep your notes, or your letters it wouldn’t mean~~

I imagine your captain will be summoned again before you set sail for the sea. His Majesty seems to enjoy his company. It is probably that which annoys the Nobles more than anything else. Tensions with Hearts requires any and all allies the Royals can find, but I do wonder what would become of this friendship if peace was to be solidified.

And I must impress upon you the good fortune you have not to remain at court for more than a handful of weeks. Winter is almost here, and many of the Nobles will be returning to their personal lands for the season. So they are getting as much backstabbing and connivery done as they can before they go. I don’t know which is worse; the Summer Court or the pre-Winter Court. It is lucky for us that my family wields so little power, in comparison to others in Spades. If we had more influence, someone would have picked up on this correspondence by now, and used it for blackmail or slander.

I suppose that reality is part of the reason I continue to write. I dislike being held sway by the rigidity of Court life. The enforced propriety. The concept of honour. I matter so little in the affairs of the Kingdom; I do not want to be restricted in my activities by fear of what damage the words of others could heap upon my family. That is no way to live.

You never sign with a last name. It is a mark of low-birth. It is typical of a pirate. But I imagine it is freeing.

 

Lady Luka deVik

 

\--

_November, The Township of Thime_

To Lady Luka,

 

I told you that I grew up haphazardly in the northern mountains. Shuffled between distant relatives until I was old enough to travel on my own. I apprenticed under various mastercraftsmen, took jobs on farms and at docks, and eventually met Arthur and joined up with him on a vessel.

I know my father’s name, and my mother’s name, and I know the names of the relatives I stayed with. But to call any of those names _mine_ seems kinda dishonest. Because they’re not mine, not really.

In old times, people just made up their last names, didn’t they? They’d take their father’s name and use that as their last name, or they’d use their profession. In the eastern hills they took their names from their natural surroundings. Or something like that. I read it in one of those books in the library, when I was waiting for you.

I guess if I ever needed one, I’d make my own. Something to do with being free, in the sky or in the sea. Piracy is no clean profession, make no mistake, and we all know, we all really and truly know, that this legitimization, this ‘privateer’ license, won’t last. But piracy is freeing, Lady Luka. You answer to no one but the sea. And the captain I guess, but sometimes the two are basically the same.

I imagine having something like family honour is nice, sometimes. If someone hurts you you’ve got a slew of cousins ready to kick them in the knees for you. But the way court works, as far as I can tell, is that if you bump into the wrong Lord and make him spill his drink by accident, you can lead your entire family to social ruin. And that just seems silly.

I’ve always loved winter, though it’s not too fun on a ship. Frozen sails, ropes and water barrels are no good, I bet you can imagine. I miss that about the mountains. The winters there are brutal, terrible actually. The snows can get up to your shoulders, the sun can disappear for weeks, and it gets so cold that your lashes freeze together. But it’s gorgeous. It is absolutely beautiful. And it’s quiet. It’s silent. It’s not anything like the capital city, or any city. The mountains are the kinda place that make you realize how little you matter. How big the world is. When the sky is gray-white and everything is covered and snow, the sky and the land kind of blend together, and become endless. It’s like being on the sea on a sunny day in that sense.

If I may, I wonder, are you also returning to your family lands for the winter? I will have to address my letters elsewhere, if that is the case.

 

Soren Mountainson or Snowside or Skyland or something like that

\--

_December, The Royal Palace of Spades_

 

To Soren Thistleforbrains,

 

I do not believe they allow for the creation of new last names anymore, as it disrupts the censuses, but by all means I urge you to continue inventing surnames for yourself. I always enjoy having new material to add to the list of things to mock you for.

My family lands are nestled just beneath a mountain, I believe I told you, in a valley that becomes absolutely swamped with snow. And the spring thaws always bring a risk of flooding. It is not very populated, and there is nothing to do. No libraries, no towns to ride through, no markets to visit. Its saving grace is its utter lack of drama. It is very simple and backwater compared to the lavish central city. Some days I yearn for it, other days I dread it. But winters there are never pleasant, and once most of the Nobles have cleared out, the palace will be quite quiet.

So no, I will not be returning to my family lands for the winter.

And it is worth pointing out, I suppose, that if I were to return there, continuation of this correspondence would be impossible. Here in the Spades palace, I am the representative of the deVik Clan and hold our seat on the lower council. But in our lands my parents have the final say. Should they demand to read suspicious mail from an unknown source, they would have the right. Even if it was addressed to me. At the court, it is merely myself and Emil. If Emil were receiving suspicious mail, I would have the right to read it first. Age usurps autonomy in the world of the highborn, you see.

There are few good reasons to stay at court for as long and as often as I do, and that is one of the more persuasive ones.

The atmosphere is dulled here, though. His Majesty is quiet, which is unusual. He spends less time shouting boisterously at anyone he can trap into one of his lengthy monologues, and more time staring out windows. Or walking alone through the gardens. One could even surmise that he is moping and missing his favoured privateer. But that would be a scandalous assumption.

His Majesty speaks often of freedom. Freedom from Hearts’ aggression. Freedom from the fear of mage terrorists from Clubs. Freedom from the trade restrictions and merchant persecution of Diamonds. Freedom between the Suits. Less fortified borders, looser trade, allowance of travellers to come and go as they please. Freedom from a constant state of preparation for war.

I wonder what His Majesty truly thinks of you pirates and your freedom on the seas. I wonder what he sees in your captain that makes him miss him so when he’s gone.

 

Lady Luka deVik

\--

_December, The Township of Time_

 

To Lady Luka,

 

The distance between us is so much shorter now, and it takes so little time for our letters to reach each other. It’s amazing! But also, it makes me worry about bothering you again. But then, also, I feel like I haven’t bothered you for awhile. Not too much, anyways. You’d tell me if I was, wouldn’t you? I know you would.

If most of the Nobles have left court then perhaps the King will call us back soon. As for moping, I don’t think anyone’s got dear old Arthur beat. Rum’s his new best friend, it listens intently while he complains about stupid brats kicking him out but begging him to stay and not go to sea but telling him to stay away and we’re all just letting him think he good at keeping secrets. He’s not. He definitely misses your King, freedom speak and all.

The crew is getting a bit rowdy, though. Arthur is being really strict about no one causing trouble. But prior to this agreement with the King, all we did was cause trouble! I don’t mind it, it’s nice to not be in a tavern fight every other night, but some of the guys are antsy. They wanna go to like…brothels and stuff. Shakedown gentlemen in the street at night. Snatch pearls off of ladies’ necks. But Arthur’s not budging. We get so much treasure from raiding Hearts’, and barely any of it gets taken by the royal treasury. There’s no need to cause trouble. But for a lot of the crew, it’s not about the wealth, it’s about…being pirates.

On a less sucky note, I took the advice you gave me awhile ago. I’ve asked Arthur to teach me about the magic he uses on the ships. He looked at me like I’d sprouted another head, but then he was really excited. He ended up going for hours, since he didn’t want to just tell me about the ships, but about _everything_ to do with his magic. It was pretty interesting! Though I may have accidentally dozed off a few times. I don’t think he noticed, he was really caught up in what he was saying, haha.

It’s cold here, but not a mountain cold. A wind blows off the river, and everything feels damp and chilled. I think it’d be really easy to get sick here. Right now we’re rotating who stays on the boats and who sleeps in town, but I usually volunteer to stay with the boats. If my nose is red next time I see you, now you know why.

I miss you, Lady Luka.

Soren

\--

_December, The Royal Palace of Spades_

 

To Soren Rednose,

 

It appears you were right. Now that the palace and city is mostly empty of Nobles, His Majesty has announced that he is inviting Captain Kirkland back for the winter. His Highness the Jack looks none to pleased, but with the majority of the council members gone he has no support to challenge the King. The imbalance of a Triumvirate missing one of the Royals is surely frustrating for a Jack who has served multiple terms. Speculation has died down, as it has been so many years since the King was chosen, but one cannot help but wonder just where the Spades Queen is. Though if we had a Queen, perhaps we would not be dallying as we are in challenging Hearts to war.

I imagine winter will not help the rowdiness of your crew, when it is too cold to go out and loiter in the streets. As much as your captain and His Highness wish to enjoy each other’s company, they cannot ignore the massive fleet of pirates that is obliged to follow Captain Kirkland around. It is a troublesome bubble waiting to burst.

Perhaps we can chat about magic, when you return. I have my own, as you know. My family used to hail from the mountains, as you do, so our magic is the old kind. From before the Ancestors came down into the valleys and to the sea. I am nowhere near as eloquent as your captain, but perhaps you will find it interesting regardless.

And wear a scarf, idiot. Cover your neck and nose. Make sure to drink something hot, and cover your head and feet. I hope you’ve exchanged your threadbare clothes for something warmer. Tell me, at least, that you have acquired boots with woolen lining? Don’t come back here sniffling with a cold, I won’t be able to stand being around you. Though I pray that the cold has frozen solid whatever product you use to stand your hair on end. I hope you’ve learned to comb it in the time you’ve been away.

Reading your atrocious handwriting strains my eyes. I suppose I look forward to listening to your words instead.

Until you return,

Lady Luka

\--

My Lady with the chilly gaze,

 

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I overstepped a boundary and I hope so badly you can forgive me. It was presumptuous of me to act as I did, and I beg your forgiveness. Please do not shun me. We can pretend it never happened, please.

 

The Idiot with the stupid hair

/

 

My Lady,

 

I do not know for sure if you are reading these notes, stuffed as they are in your favourite books in the library archives, but if you are, please, please accept my apology. You turn from me in the hallways, you run the other way if I so much as try to catch your gaze. My Lady, please.

 

The Idiot with the stupid hair

/

 

My Lady,

 

Your brother has been looking upon me with unkind eyes, and confronted me today. He told me to leave you alone, and to stop bothering you. It surprised me into silence, and I would have said something abrasive, told him to bring it on, except I remembered what I always said, in my letters. I always told you that if I was bothering you, I would stop.

So I will stop.

I’m sorry.

 

The Idiot

 

/

 

My Lady,

This will be the last note I leave you.

I try to keep these vague, should anyone else find them, so I apologize in advance for the somewhat obtuse wording.

You’ve heard the plan, to reduce stress on the city and palace. For some to stay, and some to leave. I have asked to be among those who leave. I will not try to see you before I go.

Again, I’m sorry. I am so so sorry.

But I will miss you, and I will miss the letters we exchanged.

 

The Idiot

\--

_January, the Royal Palace of Spades_

 

Soren,

I had never been kissed before.

Perhaps that seems improbable for a pirate such as yourself. Who has lived as she pleases and done as she pleases for as long the rolling waves of the sea could sustain her. Nonetheless, I have gone through life successfully avoiding a string of would-be lovers and suitors. My priorities have always been political, and aloofness served this purpose well.

Our correspondence always fit nicely into that mentality. You are a pirate, sworn to sail distant seas, and I am a Lady of the Spades Court. Both physical and social distance made even the speculation of relations between us impossible, and thus, safe to pursue. I spoke with you because I never thought anything would come of it. It was safe.

But I miss you, when you are not here. And I long for your letters when they have not yet arrived. I enjoy the sight of your stupid, bristly hair, and your obnoxious laugh and those huge blue earrings that look both gaudy and impractical.

You kissed me, and suddenly, nothing was safe.

I am sending you this as a letter with my magic, and I apologize if it brains you, as you are still in the palace and I have never sent something at such a short distance before. But I wanted to ensure you read it. Ensure that you did not leave with the half of Kirkland’s fleet that is sailing down the river.

Please stay.

My rooms are just behind the library, up the stairs and to the right. If you want to. Talk.

Luka

\--

_April, The Eastern Sea_

 

Luka, my love,

 

This is the first letter I’ve written to you since we came together. It feels nostalgic, but painful. I long for the times there was no distance between us. Where I needed to only turn my head to see your face. I miss the touch of your hand across my cheek, my collarbones, down the curve of my spine, between my breasts, between my legs…

I miss kissing your neck and your lips and I miss the way my hands fit on your hips and I miss the way your hair gets in my face when we’re sleeping in the same bed. I even miss that.

I don’t miss your brother glaring daggers at the back of my head, however. So, I suppose if we’re looking for positives, there’s that.

The seas are calm and bright. Winter’s hold is broken here, and I hope the morning frost has ended at last in Spades. We have begun sailing for Hearts, to begin another year of harassment. Captain Kirkland is worried that their defenses will be better, having had all winter to repair and arm their ships. But the King supplied us well before we departed, and we are all veterans at the practice of piracy.

I have a goal, my dear Luka. I want to find a pair of rings, gold and set with a bright blue jewel. You make fun of my earrings all the time but I know you love the colour. The cornflower blue. I want them to have a jewel that colour. And when we sail home to Spades I’ll get down on one knee and present it to you, in private. And even if you can’t wear it on your finger I’ll know you have it, and I’ll know that you are mine as I am yours.

These days apart are agonizing, and I struggle to find joy in the freedom of the sea as I once did. To be chained down seems welcome now, if it meant I was at your side.

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you,

 

Yours, Soren

 

\--

_May, The Royal Palace of Spades_

 

Dear Soren,

 

At first I could not believe that you had the gall to propose to me through a letter. And then I remembered with whom I was conversing and my disbelief was suspended entirely. It is a proposal most fitting for you.

I will not be able to wear the ring, you know that. Not on my finger at least. But I will hang it on a chain about my neck, and keep it with me always. So please make sure it is made of a pure metal, and settle for nothing less than perfection. Especially if you intend to wear yours where others can see.

It is strange to me that this harassment is still going on. That Hearts has chosen to not yet declare open war. That His Majesty is also refraining from declaring war. The tensions are stretched tight, and are likely to snap at any moment. I question the decision to send you down there. Pirates or not, the situation seems volatile and unpredictable, and I find myself concerned. The air is tense here, the returning Nobles all speak of calling in their bannermen, doing training drills in their courtyards. Stockpiling food and goods in their castles. His Majesty and His Highness are both grim and stiff. War seems imminent, and it sours the taste of spring.

Be safe, please.

When this business with Heart concludes, one way or another, His Majesty will have no further use for pirates. Perhaps then, when you are once again outside the confines of the law, we can find a way for us both to be free, together.

My bed is cold without you lying beside me.

 

Your Luka

\--

_May, The Southeastern Sea_

Luka, my love,

The Southern waters are unfriendlier than they have ever been. We have been unable to make port safely, thus far. Either the towns have been ransacked by pirates (not us) and fire arrows and rounds at us before we can enter the harbor, or they have struck treaties with the Hearts navy for protection.

Arthur was right, Hearts _has_ been busy, but in a craftier way than any of us gave them credit for.

I don’t want to worry you further, so I’m going to change the subject abruptly, and write of other things.

You’ll be pleased to know that my hair is no longer a spiky mess. I love the length of yours so much, I’ve decided to try and grown my out, just to see how it turns out. So far it’s a mess, but it’s long enough to braid now, and I like the look of that just fine. I can also hang beads and stuff at the end of the braids, which I couldn’t do with spikes, and it’s very cool to look at. One of my crewmates told me to be careful of people grabbing the braids in a fight, so I’ve taken to sticking bits of glass in them as well. It reflects light in the sun, which is pretty, and it will be absolutely no fun if anyone tries to grab it.

I’ve had no luck with the rings just yet, though we haven’t really had the opportunity to do any real looting. When we hit a major fleet, really punch Hearts where it hurts, _then_ I’ll have a wide array to choose from, and I promise, I’ll find something for us that we’ll wear forever.

I dream of kissing you, touching you, and feeling you near me every night. I eagerly await our reunion, my love.

Yours, Soren

\--

_June, The Royal Palace of Spades_

Dear Soren,

 

War has been officially declared between Hearts and Spades. The palace is a flurry of activity, all the Nobles have been called to raise their armies, and the palace bells have not stopped ringing. I have been asked to work with other mages on outer defenses, so I will be travelling to our eastern coast shortly. I lack an address or location yet, but I will send it to you as soon as I do.

I know not what this means for you pirates as of yet, though I know His Majesty has dispatched a letter to your captain. What its contents say, I could not tell you.

I apologize, I have no choice but to be brief. No one has time to themselves right now. Everyone must do their part. And I must arrange affairs for my brother, as he is still underaged and I am due to depart within the week.

I pray for your safety, and I miss you, and I want to hit you repeatedly for doing something stupid like putting glass in your hair. You’re going to stab yourself in your sleep, idiot.

I miss you, stay safe.

Your Luka

\--

_June, The Port City of Anglia_

 

Dear Soren,

^^^

See above for new address.

I miss you.

I’m tired and other mages are dicks.

Your Luka

\--

_August, The Port City of Anglia_

Dear Soren,

 

It worries me that I have not heard from you. I wonder if you read the address right, or if my magic did not work and that letter did not reach you. I have heard that the seas are tumultuous right now, that the Hearts navy is ravaging our shipping and merchants, and I wonder where that leaves you, the pirates.

Being away from the capital is tiresome, because I no longer have any idea what is going on. I cannot even gossip with you about His Majesty moping over your captain, however scandalous such suppositions are.

Summer went by so fast, and not a moment of it spent together. Cuddling on cold winter nights is enjoyable, for sure, but I would like to try walking with you through a forest on a sunny day. Weave flowers through those braids of yours instead of glass. I did not even receive a letter from you, throughout the summer months.

Perhaps now is the time to swallow my pride, and admit that I am scared for you. The fear is so great, my hand is trembling, and I cannot find further words to pen down.

Tell me that you are alive.

 

Your Luka

\--

_October, The Eastern Sea_

My love, my dearest Luka

 

There has been no way to send you letters, my love, and no time to write. I’m taking a chance, sending this letter with one of the assistants to the Jack, who has been visiting briefly. I remember him being a friend to your brother, while we were at court, and he’s agreed to send this to you.

I am at war, my love. The King asked Captain Kirkland to fight for Spades as an official offshoot of the navy, and he agreed. About half of our crew defected as a result, and we went from piracy to full out sea warfare in under a week. Many of our ships have been destroyed, and many of our crewmates lost. Arthur has sailed further south with the bulk of the navy, and I am in charge of defending the eastern coast. So we are not so far from each other as we once thought, my dear Luka. We are not so far apart.

My love, there’s so much I don’t want to say. I hate the idea of you scared. I want you to enjoy the weather on your own, and live on happily, even if I am not there.

The guns are sounding again, there is no time.

I have found our rings at last my love, and I hope with all my heart I get the opportunity to give them to you.

 

Yours, Soren

 

\--

_February, The Royal Palace of Spades_

 

~~You idiot-~~

~~Stupid damned-~~

~~Soren you-~~

~~Pirate bast-~~

 

Soren,

It has taken me months to find the strength to write this letter to you.

Xiang arrived with your letter, and with your rings, and with news that you’d been killed defending the eastern coast.

Even now my eyes are filling, and my stomach is twisting. For years, I was known as an emotionless bitch in court, but here I am, unable to write a handful of words without crumbling.

You idiotic pirate, of all the people in the world to steal my affections it had to be you. Below my class, beyond the law, a wild pirate wench, destined to die within less then two years of us meeting.

Some days I curse the King for asking you pirates to fight. Sometimes I curse your captain for accepting.

But fate works in ways we cannot fathom, and your pirate captain was crowned the Queen of Spades just a month prior. Officially chosen by the Spades clocks. I know the two of you were friends, but I have never spoken to him, I have never heard him speak of you. I do not know if I want to try and start that conversation. I can barely think about you, or write to you, let alone talk about you.

I wish I could have seen you with those braids. I wish I could have seen whether you looked ridiculous, or dashing, or a mix of both. That was you, as you are in my memories, a mix of ridiculous and dashing.

I wear your ring on a chain around my neck, and I wear my ring on my finger. The blue reminds me of the cornflowers in the fields around my family home, of the place where the sea meets the sky, and of your eyes.

Rest well, Soren.

Your love, your wife-to-be, Luka.

 

**5.**

 

There’s a crowd gathered in the middle of the road on the street he used to live on, and Dennis and his friends all stop to try and look, craning their heads over the tops of the people who are tightly clustered. Dennis thinks he can hear a woman crying.

It’s an exciting way to end a day that’s been otherwise unbearable. SATs are just as terrible as everyone said they would be, and while they’re all exhausted, whatever’s causing the commotion has brought spark back into what has been a long, soul-sucking day.

“A car probably hit a dog,” says one of his friends with a sad look, while another perks up immediately, excited by the idea of seeing a dead animal.  

Dennis frowns too, because _that’s so sad,_ and he wonders if it was Miss Elaine’s poodle, or Mr. Granson’s yorkie. He moved away years and years ago, but he knows all the current residents are the same as when he lived here, and the street was never lacking in small, irritating dogs. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprise if the car in question belonged to Bree Thompson, who had gotten her license only a few weeks prior and was known to hate anything with four legs bigger than a quarter and smaller than a bike.

He wonders if she can go to jail for this? That would make things awkward. He’s supposed to tutor her in physics next week and he was looking forward to the extra cash the exercise would bring him.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the sight of someone breaking away from the crowd, a former neighbor a few years older than they are, looking grim and shaken and like she’s holding back tears.

She doesn’t own a dog. Maybe it was her cat?

“You guys should leave,” she says, before any of them can say anything, her voice shaking, “The police will be here soon, and I know none of you want to be stuck answering questions for an hour. It’s rude to just stand there and stare anyways. But teenagers don’t really have any decency, do they?”

 _That_ causes cries of outrage from their group, and normally, Dennis would be joining in with them. But he’s still frowning, because it feels like he’s missing something. Something important. The police?

“The police?” he parrots back, shifting his backpack on his shoulder and staring at the woman, brow furrowed, “Why were the police called? It’s just a dog or something that got hit right? Or…or your cat?”

He has a sinking feeling in his stomach. A curdling and a twisting that makes him want to wrap his arms around himself.

Pain ripples across her face and she stiffens, doing what Dennis so desperately wants to and folding her arms across her body.

“You know that kid who used to live next door to you?” she begins quietly, her voice cracking, “I had you babysit him sometimes, when I had too much homework to do it myself. It was the secret between the three of us, since you were still so young and really shouldn’t have been in charge of another person.” She smiles wryly, a painful sight, and Dennis struggles to remember how to breathe. His friends have gone silent behind him, and it feels like they’ve all instantaneously reached the same terrible, terrible conclusion.

“Yeah,” he answers after a few long seconds of silence, his throat dry, “He…he’d be like eight now, right? I remember him.”

He’s a hard kid to forget. Never smiled unless he thought he’d outsmarted you, never giggled unless he’d manage to prove how _dumb_ you were. A real brat in terms of conversation, but otherwise very well behaved for a preschooler. Had a glare that could turn you to stone, and demanded piggybacks to anyplace that involved using stairs. A real piece of work. But Dennis had loved babysitting that kid. It was the reason his neighbor foisted her shifts off on him so often. He likes to think the kid liked him too, though it was hard to tell with him. They had a lot of fun, playing in the park out back. The kid loved sticking those blue cornflowers in Dennis’s hair, and demanding he not take them out for the rest of the night.

He’ll never admit it, but Dennis had cried when he’d come home from his last babysitting shift. A few nights before they moved. He’d told the kid he was leaving, would be too far away to babysit him, and received a blank stare for his trouble and a command to get more jello from the fridge. He’s still not sure whether the kid just didn’t get the difference between leaving to go far away and the leaving Dennis did after every shift. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

He’d always thought it was the latter, since he kept in touch with his former neighbor and she never said anything about the kid asking after him.

But that was almost five years ago, and Dennis honestly hasn’t thought about the kid much in recent years. He feels bad about it now, standing on his old street, his former neighbor standing in front of him with tears in her eyes, the wailing of police and ambulance sirens in the distance. A sound that is clearly a woman crying getting louder with each passing minute.

“So uh,” he struggles to find the words, his chest getting tighter with every passing moment, “He’s- he’s,”

She swallows, and this time the tears do spill over onto her cheeks. Her jaw clenches, and he see her hands clench into fists at her side.

“That Thompson girl should never have been given a license,” she spits, “It’s not like he dashed out into the road or something, she should have seen him-,”

Aaaand that’s all he needs to hear. Really. He doesn’t want to hear anymore. His eyes are already burning and he- his friends are here he just- he just _can’t._

“I get it,” he says abruptly, interrupting, “I- yeah I’m gonna do what you said before. We’re gonna, I’m gonna go. I, yeah. Just, yeah, guys?” 

His friends fall into step beside him as he turns away jerkily, just as the police car pulls to a stop. He feels one of them place a hand on his shoulder, hears another asking if he’s okay, but he shakes both of them off, scrubbing the back of his hand against the moisture gathering on his eyelashes.

He’s okay. He barely knew the kid, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ohhh I don't know if this will ever update. I lost momentum for this months ago but pushed through to get oneshot number 4 done today so I could post this before dennor week ended.


End file.
